BILL CALLS this his Rothschild suit. He is smoking. His spectacles are thin-rimmed. His shoes are worn at the heel and the leather is cracked. One hand rests in his pocket. It is a grey three-piece. A thin black tie; bright eyes; lined face; pointy chin; slim outline. Long fingers and a fedora. He is ashen as the city. Sea haar creeps along the streets until they disappear into its dense fog. Edinburgh is relentless in her gloom when she chooses, a city of endless night. In this mood, the ceaseless grey is enough to numb an optimist. Pea soup! It is hardly an inventive description. Those who describe Edinburgh’s vampiric soul as thus are not his kind. They are no starry angel-headed hipsters! Twin-souled city. All the darker for the light and to find himself back here in secret is thrilling. He just wanted to come back and hide for a few days.

Bill keeps doing it.

Hoping to find himself somewhere else that makes sense.

So far it is not working.

Tendrils of sea mist wisp around a corner. Off to eat another street, and just like that the grey lifts.

A sky appears above in blue as if it has been there the whole time.

He can return to his young man soon.

Can’t stay away too long.

Who would want to? So few have his kind of soul. Rarity is sought by the poet – in intimacy and in art. His young gent has no reliability or money. He has little airs or graces: he is, in fact, uncouth but he has never short-changed Bill on the muse.

First the poet will attend to what must be attended.

Morning rolls.

It’s a thing they do here.